


Lovesick

by bonerthatiusedtoknow



Series: Headcanons, plotbunnies, and flurries of inspiration [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: For later Use, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Not completed, Plotbunnies, Sibling Incest, Witches, flurry of inspiration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonerthatiusedtoknow/pseuds/bonerthatiusedtoknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little flurry of inspiration I had for a love/lust curse fic. It's only a fragment of what it would be, but I'm leaving it here in hopes that I get prompted to finish it.</p><p>In which the Winchesters are the kings of bad luck and Sam really, really hates witches. (Or the one where Sam gets cursed, and Dean isn't making it any easier on him, the little fucker.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovesick

Really fucking awful luck is what it is, but then, they don’t have much of any other kind so surprise, surprise. Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s hands fist into stones at his sides. “You’re doing it again.” He glares, fixes Dean with a scowl because he’s already told the little fucker half a dozen times. A swear hisses out of Dean’s mouth, barely audible over the too-loud music that Dean refuses to turn down, but Sam catches it anyway. Catches everything he does now, every stupid shift of his muscles beneath his shirt, every tense of his jaw, every breath-- shallow or deep or quick or slow--every single swallow. Sam thinks he might combust at any minute, and it’ll be Dean’s fault because he’s _looking_ again. “Dean!”

“Okay! Shit, sorry.” He’s sulking now, his bottom lip poking out just the tiniest bit--completely and utterly unintentional, Sam knows. Asshole.

Sam feels vindictive, wants Dean to squirm in his seat, feel as uncomfortable as he does in this moment. “Not yet, but keep it up and you will be. I’m exercising some first class restraint here.” It’s a promise. Dean flinches and Sam feels justified and not the slightest bit guilty. They drive the rest of the way to the motel in relative silence--Black Flag is still trying to blow his eardrums, but at least there’s no awkward conversation and Dean keeps his eyes to himself.

Nevada shouldn’t be legal, shouldn’t be allowed to exist at all. It feels like the literal incarnation of hellfire, and the sun here burns like an iron pressed to skin. Dry heat or no, Sam feels like he’s melting, soon he’ll be a flesh colored puddle on the floor of the Impala and Dean will torch his remains out of spite because dude my fucking car. Sam’s brother is kind of a dick. 

Sweat makes his jeans stick to him, cling like a second skin. He’s been half hard since this whole thing started and it’s almost painfully (ha) obvious, but there’s nothing he can do about it until they figure out the exact curse the witch hurled at him. Because he doesn’t foresee Dean leaving him alone to deal with this himself, and he has a sneaking suspicion that as long as he can smell Dean’s aftershave and get little glimpses of the green of his irises and the stupid smirk he gets on his face when he thinks he’s being particularly clever, his erection is there to stay. They have a pretty messed up life.

“Fucking witches,” Dean mutters. He pushes inside their motel room, careful not to brush against Sam as he does, who should really be kind of offended by that. Sam can only summon up the energy to be grateful, though. It’s been little over an hour, but already Sam’s fingers itch with the need to curl in Dean’s hair and tug. They burn with it. The spell is getting worse.

“I think I should get another room.” Dean looks at him warily; Sam’s cock jumps. He’s always been a little wrong about his big brother’s attention, always wanted those eyes on him. When he was small and constructing block neighborhoods. When he was a little older, practicing Latin and pronouncing all the words correctly. When he hit all the bullseyes on the very first try while they were target practicing. When he began to grow up and out and his brother’s clothes just weren’t cutting it anymore. When girls began to notice and vied for his time. When Sam saw Dean for the first time in nearly four years and his girlfriend stepped out of their bedroom in her panties. Now, then, always. So maybe it doesn’t come as so much of a shock to him that they have such of an effect on him now.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dean scoffs, “you aren’t getting another room. Now sit down, shut up, and take off your pants.” Sam chokes, throat spasming around air and maybe a moan as his dick presses thick and hot up against his zipper. 

“ _Dean_.”

“What--oh my god, no, you gargantuan idiot!” The damage has already been done though, and it doesn’t matter how offended Dean sounds or that his voice comes out in a squeak, hitting a register that Sam has never previously witnessed. “I meant to stitch up your leg, asshole. _Jesus_ , Sam!” His eyebrows are furrowed down over the bridge of his nose, his mouth pinched tight, and Sam thinks about how beautiful he is when he’s angry, even if there’s a bit more embarrassment mixed in there than Dean would like to let on. Sam has always thought so; it’s a cosmic injustice, really. But he’d thought he’d gotten over that little thrill when Dean’s glare was narrowed at him. Apparently not, he thinks, and something sticky and hot slithers in, latches on with talons and teeth, and makes itself at home in his gut. 

“I can do it myself, better if you don’t touch me.” It comes out reedy and wrong in his ears, but he doesn’t try to mask the desperation. “I can grab the one next door, just until we fix this.”

“I said _no_ , Sam. What, I need to say it in Latin for you to understand me? We don’t know what spell she used, if there are other side effects I need to be there.” Sam’s hands ball in the denim of his jeans, his jaw clenching on harsh words.

“Dean,” he tries--slow, deliberate, “It’s getting worse, if I stay in this room with you much longer I’m not going to be able to help myself. I don’t want to take that chance.” 

Dean rolls his eyes like Sam’s argument is less than satisfactory, but the faintest trace of pink tints his cheeks; Sam’s eyes linger there. “So what? If you’re worried about protecting my virtue, don’t. I fight monsters for a living, I’m pretty sure I can handle my horny little brother, no problem.”

It’s wrong, so, so wrong that Dean referring to him that way--recognizing the blood tie between them, the closeness, the fact that Sam is pumping away in Dean's body and Dean in his--does things to him right now. Filthy, filthy, nasty things. Makes his heart beat a little faster, his palms sweat, and goddamn it, he isn't _fucking listening_.

Sam crosses the room in one long stride, fists his hands in Dean’s jacket and shoves him back against the wall. “Can you?” he hisses, and he’s pressing in then, plastering his body against his brother’s so close, so so close, until he can feel every line of Dean’s torso through their clothes. Dean struggles, shoves and swears and demands to know what the fuck, Sam. But he can’t let up, has to make his point, has to make Dean get it. 

“You aren’t listening to me, Dean,” Sam says, low, almost intimate into his brother’s ear as he wriggles fruitlessly against him. “I’m not going to give you a choice. I’m just going to take it. Everything, whatever I want, no matter what you do or what you say. And you won’t be able to do a thing to stop me.” His hips roll and press his erection into the soft pudge of Dean’s lower belly; he shutters. 

Quick as that, Dean's a snarling mass of fury, a wild animal cornered and scared with only one thing on his mind. He bucks and fights and claws, gets an arm out with every intention of using it to his greatest advantage. A right hook sings straight at Sam's jaw, but he moves just in time, locks dean's wrist in a crushing grip and slams it against the wall over his head, then the other for good measure.

Adrenaline makes him faster, makes him ready for the knee Dean means to bury in his groin. "Get the fuck off of me!" Sam kicks his legs apart, steps between and seals their lower bodies together like parts of a whole. He's so hard he can barely see straight and wants, he wants, but he won't--can't-- do that to Dean. He drops his head into the crook of his brother's neck, brushes a kiss there before he murmurs, pleads, "I don't want to hurt you, Dean. Please don't make me."

A beat, then Dean sags, goes limp between Sam's body and the wall. "Yeah," he rasps, "yeah, okay, Sammy. I'm listening to you. Go. I'll-I'll call Bobby; we'll fix this. I promise."

Sam let's the heat of Dean's body--he's always seemed to run a few degrees warmer than everyone else--soak into him for a seconds longer. Beyond the sexual desire for this body, there's an emotional one. One that embodies the longing to curl up small and unthreatening into his big brother's body and feel safe and protected and whole and completely, utterly loved. He forces himself back, doesn't let his eyes stray from the point on the wall beside Dean's ear. He can't handle the startled look that'll show so plainly in his eyes, the way his shirt will have gotten rucked up during the struggle to bare skin, the way his legs will be splayed to fit the width of Sam’s body there in the space between.


End file.
